Chapter 13 Isabella
Chapter thirteen
ISABELLA
DAY THREE
Franco finds me at breakfast with news that almost makes me drop my coffee.
"Five minutes," he says quietly, sliding into the seat beside me. His eyes sweep the terrace once—cataloging the staff, the believers at their usual tables, the Greek brothers nowhere in sight. "I found a window."
My heart stutters. "A window?"
"The compound's jammed tight, but there's a rocky outcrop on the north side—some quirk of the terrain creates a gap in their coverage. Manuel spotted it during his perimeter sweep." He keeps his voice low, barely moving his lips. "One call. Make it count."
We slip out through the garden, past the believers doing their morning meditation, their white clothes bright against the green. No one looks up. No one questions where we're going. Either we're not as watched as I thought, or someone's already decided to let this happen.
I don't know which possibility is worse.
The rocky outcrop juts over the water on the island's north side, wind-scoured and isolated. Below us, waves crash against black stone, sending spray into the air. The storm that's been building on the horizon looks closer now. Angrier.
"The burners won't work here, even with a charge," Franco says before I can ask.
"They're jamming everything below satellite frequency.
" He hands me a small device—military-looking, nothing like a regular phone.
"Satellite uplink. Encrypted. They won't be able to trace it, but we've only got until the signal window closes.
" He checks something on his own phone. "Four minutes. Maybe less."
I dial with shaking fingers. The number Antonio made me memorize, traced on my spine in the dark while he whispered burn this into your brain, Bella.
He answers on the first ring.
"Bella."
Just my name. But the way he says it—like he's been holding his breath for days, like he's been drowning and I'm air—makes my eyes sting.
"It's me. I don't have long—"
"Are you safe? Are you hurt?" His voice is controlled, but I hear the fear underneath. The same fear I heard through stone walls when he thought I couldn't hear him pacing outside my prison door.
"I'm okay. They're keeping me comfortable." The understatement of the century. "But Antonio, listen—something's wrong here. Something bigger than my mother."
"Tell me."
Franco holds up three fingers.
"There's a doctor. Theos. He runs this place like a—I don't know—like a cult.
Everyone here believes he can heal them.
Bring back their dead. They're planning something.
A ceremony. When the moon is full." The words tumble out, tripping over each other.
"My mother's part of it. I'm part of it.
They keep talking about my blood, something about my cancer—"
"Slow down." Antonio's voice sharpens. "What do they want from you?"
"I don't know exactly. Something about antibodies, immunotherapy. But that's not—" I glance at Franco. Two fingers now. "Can I talk to Elena? Please. I need to hear her voice."
A pause. Rustling. Then Antonio's voice, thick with something I can't name: "Hold on. Let me get Luca to patch her through."
Patch her through?
"BELLA-BALLINA!"
The tears come before I can stop them. "Hi, baby."
"Signora Martha says I can't tell you where we are because it's a secret, but I can tell you there are lots of grapes and I've counted four hundred and seventy-two but I keep losing track and having to start over because Giuseppe keeps making noises and I forget what number I was on—"
"Who's Giuseppe?"
"He's a GOAT, Bella-ballina. He tried to eat my hair but Signora Martha said that's just how goats say hello and I said that's a VERY RUDE way to say hello—"
I'm laughing and crying at the same time, the salt wind stinging my wet cheeks. Franco is making urgent gestures, but I can't—I can't let go yet.
"Bella-ballina?" Elena's voice drops to a whisper. "Are you coming home soon? Papa said seven days but that was already three days ago so now it should only be four days but four days is still SO MANY—"
"I'm trying, baby. I promise I'm trying."
"Okay." Small voice. Trusting voice. The voice of someone who hasn't learned yet that promises can shatter. "I made you another picture. It has you and me and Papa and Cerberus and we're all dancing. Even Cerberus is dancing and he doesn't even have good dance feet."
My throat closes. "I can't wait to see it."
"Bella-ballina?" A pause, and I can picture her face—serious, thoughtful, working something out with that intensity she inherited from her father. "I love you one two three four five six seven."
"I love you one two three four five six seven eight nine ten."
"That's MORE than seven!"
"Because I love you more than seven."
She giggles—that bright bell-sound that makes everything hurt and heal at the same time—and I press the phone harder against my ear, trying to hold onto it. Trying to memorize the sound.
Franco taps his watch. One finger. Then makes a slashing motion across his throat. Wrap it up.
"I have to go, baby. Be brave for me, okay? Be brave for Papa."
"I'm ALWAYS brave. I'm the bravest girl in the WHOLE WORLD. That's what you said."
"That's what I said. Because it's true."
"Bella-ballina?" Her voice goes small again. "Come home."
The words hit me somewhere deep. Somewhere that still hasn't healed from losing my own mother. From believing she was dead for thirteen years.
"I will," I whisper. "I promise."
"Okay. Here's Papa. I love you bye!"
Rustling. Footsteps. Another beep. Then Antonio's voice, rough-edged: "Bella. What else? What haven't you told me?"
Franco is waving frantically now. Thirty seconds. Maybe less.
"The room they put me in." I talk fast, trying to fit everything into the closing window.
"It's wrong. They rebuilt it from my childhood—my actual clothes, my actual books.
Someone's been watching me for years, Antonio.
And I found something. A bracelet. Gold chain, ballet slipper charm with tiny diamonds where the ribbons would—"
Static erupts through the line.
"Bella? You're breaking up—"
"—a note with it, unsigned, it said he's been waiting—"
"—can't hear—say again—"
"The bracelet! Gold chain, ballet slipper, diamonds where the—"
The line goes dead.
I stare at the device. Press it harder against my ear like that will bring his voice back.
Nothing. Just silence.
"Window's closed," Franco says quietly. He takes the device from my numb fingers.
"He didn't hear me." My voice sounds strange. Hollow. "The bracelet—the note—he didn't hear any of it."
"He heard enough. The ceremony. The timeline. Your mother." Franco's hand settles on my shoulder—warm, steady. "That's enough to mobilize. He's coming, Isabella. Whatever it takes."
But I can't stop thinking about the bracelet. The note tucked beneath it in that velvet box.
I've been waiting a long time to give you this. The first of many. Soon.
I wanted to tell Antonio. Wanted to hear his voice turn sharp and certain, wanted him to tell me what it meant, who sent it, why someone would rebuild my childhood bedroom down to the lavender sachets my mother used.
Now he has fragments. A bracelet he didn't hear me describe. A ceremony he knows is coming. A wife he can't reach.
I look out at the sea—endless, gray, churning with the approaching storm.
"He'll figure it out," Franco says. Like he's reading my mind. "Antonio's smart. He'll put the pieces together."
I nod. But the words from that note keep circling in my head.
I've been waiting a long time.
How long? And for what?
The wind picks up, cold and sharp, carrying the smell of rain. The storm is closer now. Hours away, maybe less.
Somewhere beyond that chaos, Antonio is staring at a dead phone. Replaying my broken words. Trying to make sense of what I almost told him.
Gold chain. Ballet slipper. Diamonds.
I hope it's enough.
I hope he understands what I couldn't finish saying.